Beautiful Minds
by Carowen
Summary: Tracking a killer that had always eluded her, Ms. Christie finds herself in England face to face with the famous Sherlock Holmes.
1. Culture Clash

Beautiful Minds

Chapter 1 – "Culture Clash"

I tap my fingers rhythmically on the arm of my chair. I knew the murderer I had been chasing for months was in England and I had to find him. The one thing that puzzled me most about this sudden trip across the pond is why, why England? He seemed very content to murder at will in the states but did he grow bored and want to try his hand at outwitting England's best.

Two murders in a matter of hours would suggest that the assailant was indeed on his way to making England's most wanted list in no time. I'm sure had he not killed a very prominent member of parliament's son I would have never gotten the call from Mycroft Holmes.

As I attempt to hail a cab a black car with tinted windows pulls up, stopping at the curb in front of me. A more than beautiful woman steps out, holding the door open. I nod my head to her and climb in the car.

"Mycroft, so nice to finally meet you." I extend my hand; the rather regal man taking it.

"I see you're as intuitive as you are beautiful Ms. Christie. There are a few matters to discuss before I take you to the crime scene. First and for most, my brother." Mycroft crinkles his nose as if he's smelled a foul odor.

"Sherlock, yes I believe I've heard of him. I very much look forward to working with him." Mycroft holds up one long slender finger, closing his eyes so gently.

"One does not work with my brother; you attempt to work around him whilst he enjoys his playground. I've brought you here because you know the killer best. When you do meet my brother, do try to refrain from hitting him." A small, somewhat evil smirk filters across his lips and I take it there is no brotherly love lost between them.

We ride in silence until we reach the crime scene, Mycroft's assistant typing away on her cell phone. "Mycroft, I will catch him. This I promise you."

Mycroft reaches forward to close the car, his eyes gazing up at me. "Do your best but we both know Sherlock will catch this killer."

As the car drives off I feel a bit miffed. If he assumed I took the red eye from New York to just play second fiddle to his brother then Mycroft Holmes is sadly mistaken.

Pulling the sash of my trench coat tighter I walk over to the yellow tape marking the scene of the murders. An attractive man with graying hair approaches me, his mannerisms giving away his status.

"I'm sorry miss, this is an active crime scene. You really can't be here." He holds his arm out as if to block my view.

I reach inside my coat, making the gentleman a tad uneasy. Pulling out my credentials from the NYPD I hold them out to him. "The name is Abbatissa Christie, profiler for New York 's finest. I believe Mr. Mycroft Holmes called you. I need in there, this is my crime scene."

He shakes my hand, lowering his head just a bit. "I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade. Unfortunately, your crime scene is no longer yours."

We walk over to the yellow tape and I see him, Sherlock Holmes. Tall, a little thin with a marvelous glow in his cool blue eyes. His dark curly hair and high cheek bones set off his extraordinary face. If he was half as witty as he is attractive then I am indeed in for a battle of wits. His companion could only be John Watson, the doctor Mycroft had mentioned on the phone.

John seemed to be a regular fellow but being a doctor I would never assume he's without his own special idiosyncrasies. Lestrade walks with me as I go about searching the area of the park for myself. Sherlock looks at Lestrade, his eyes watching my every move.

"Excuse me but can you kindly remove yourself." Ignoring him I go about my business, causing John to let out a small chuckle.

"I don't think she heard you Sherlock, perhaps you should ask her again." John pushes his hands in his pocket, the smile on his face giving away his current giddy mood.

I collect a few items from the ground, placing them in a plastic evidence bag. As I approach the first body, the corner begins to collecting the second. "Excuse me, please give me a moment then you can take the bodies."

Sherlock walks around me as if studying me. I ignore him, taking in the dead man on the ground. Eventually Sherlock walks over to a tree, leaning up against it with his hands in his coat pocket. "Tell me, have you found anything useful or do you like wasting people's time?"

Rising from my knelt position I place my hands in my pockets as well, retrieving the evidence bag. "The younger of the two victims was killed first. He's dressed for a jog but it's obvious he didn't go running. The runners watch he's wearing states his heart only increases at the time of his death. He came out here to meet a lover and was caught off guard. He's an avid runner so he's in good physical shape yet it only took the killer a matter of seconds to subdue and kill him. The second man is a photographer by trade, out taking pictures of the skyline. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time." I hold up the plastic bag, pointing to the contents. "Neither of the two men smoke and these cigarette buds are fresh. They are too close to the body not to be the killers and upon further inspection I think he wanted us to find them. He left his DNA for us to link him to the murders."

Sherlock leans off of the tree, clapping his hands in a sarcastic manner. "Bravo. I'm glad someone here, besides me of course, is using a portion of their mind."

"Abbatissa Christie, good to finally meet the infamous Sherlock Holmes. Now if you'll excuse me I need to collect the boot impression." I move around him, Sherlock following me.

"Interesting. I was about to do the same thing. Tell me Ms. Christie, what is it that has you so interested in the print?" Sherlock still being his smug self, leans over me.

"The killer never wears the same shoes twice. The brand of shoe is his way of sending me a cryptic message to his next killing. The last shoes he wore were runners training shoes." Taking a picture of the print with my cell phone I ask for the print to be cast.

Sherlock runs his long finger over his chin, his blue eyes set on me like a hound on a fox. "Come, you must tell me more." He takes me by my arm and drags me towards John. "John, a cab if you please. Ms. Christie and I have a great deal to talk about. Mind you I find you intriguing but you are still ordinary in many ways."

"Sherlock, manners." John sternly says to him as I lift my eyebrows.

"You are indeed a rare specimen Mr. Holmes but your social skills are well … inept. Thank you for the backhanded compliment but if you need me you can find me at Scotland Yard." Walking away from them I can hear the pattering of his boots.


	2. Clues

Beautiful Minds

Chapter 2 – "Clues"

"Ms. Christie you seem to know this killer, do enlighten me." Sherlock yells out to me, John staring back at both of us.

Turning, I walk back towards him. "Mr. Holmes, I have been tracking this madman for a year now. I think I know him better than the few minutes you've studied his victims."

"Let me see, he stands around six maybe six and a half feet tall. He has an injury to his left leg. He has issues with men that have good physique which implies he has a deformity of some sort. He likes to smoke but it's not a habit. Leaving the buds for you to find was his calling card for you. He enjoys taunting you so I'm sure he was watching close by. The shoe isn't just the clue to his next murder but the location. You're right about the photographer, wrong place … wrong time." Sherlock gives me his steely blue eyed gaze as he turns the collar of his coat up.

"You are correct on every account but you missed one." I pull out a notepad from inside my trench coat, Sherlock's eyebrows furrowing together.

"Enlighten me Ms. Christie." John walks closer to me as Sherlock's stands tall and defiant.

"The shoes are the location and the initials of his victim. The last shoes he wore were New Balance cross trainers made in England. The victim's name, Nicholas Bishop." Closing my notepad I smile at John before I walk to the curb.

Sherlock trots over to me, placing his hands in the praying position. "He's choked his victims but I could smell something sweet about them. The killer is lacing their drinks with a toxin. That's how he's subdued the much stronger man."

"Correct again Mr. Holmes. Honestly that took me a while to figure out. I have a years' worth of evidence collected on him. Would you mind taking a look at it for me?" Looking up at him I see it, that marvelous glow in his eyes. At that moment I knew I had hooked him and I was glad to have him on my side.

After taking a cab to my hotel room I collect my briefcase and head straight for Scotland Yard. Lestrade was more than hospitable, giving me the use of his office.

Sherlock and John come marching into the station, Sherlock making his way to the board I had made of my evidence. "You do good work Ms. Christie."

"Thank you and call me Abbatissa or Abbs … whichever." Sherlock jerks his head to me, his eyes narrowing.

"Abbatissa it is. Now, to the matter of the new evidence. The boot imprint shows us he leans heavier on his right foot due to the limp in his left. This shoe appears to be a …" I cut him off, finishing his sentence.

"A Timberland hiking boot." All three men in the room gaze at me, Sherlock glaring.

"Yes … so what does this tell us?" He holds his hands out, the room going quiet. I pick up the local newspaper, shuffling the pages about when he yells at me. "Shut up!"

I thrust page 2 in his face, the picture of what I presume to be a next victim in the top right corner. "You shut up and look."

Sherlock opens his eyes, grabbing the paper from me. "Tim Landon … yes of course. He's the daredevil that has been all over the news lately."

John reads the paper over Sherlock's shoulder, the two men standing ever so close together. "It says he going to attempt to climb then free base from the Pennines Mountains. It all takes place this Saturday."

Sherlock tosses his scarf around his neck and exits the station. John and I are quickly on his heels, John making sure not to leave me behind.

John and I jump in the cab with him and I feel like the third wheel on a date. The two men gaze out the window, Sherlock's eyes dancing about as if he's trying to solve an equation.

We stop at the hotel I'm staying at, Sherlock dashing out of the cab. I pay the cabby, John waiting patiently for me. "He does this a lot.

When we finally catch up to Sherlock he's taking the elevator, his sly smile beams at us as the doors close. I rush over to the front desk and flash my NYPD badge. The clerk gives me the room number of one Tim Landon.

Hoping to catch up to Sherlock we take the stairs, John taking two at a time. When we finally reach the fifth floor Sherlock as already entered Mr. Landon's room, his dead body wrapped in his parachute.

John calls Lestrade as Sherlock and I go over the room. "Sherlock, this is new. He's never done this before."

His long elegant fingers picks up the shoe left on the floor, bringing it to his nose. "This shoe is new, never been worn. He always leaves an imprint … why leave the shoe?"

"The only reason I can justify is there is no place to leave an imprint and from the looks of it he was in a hurry. The room is trashed so they obviously had an altercation." I pick up the half empty cup of tea on the night stand and smell the same sweet scent from the last victim.

"The toxin he gave him didn't have to time work, he came in too early. He didn't calculate for Mr. Landon's body mass or strength." Sherlock runs to the balcony, peering over the edge.

I look back to see a very nervous John flexing his fingers, holding his breath until Sherlock emerges from the balcony. I smile at him, my fingers picking up the half smoked cigarette in the ashtray. "He jumped didn't he?"

"He did. He used the rigging from our victim to scale the side of the hotel. John, go talk to the kitchen staff. I need to know who had access to his tea and who delivered it." Sherlock grabs my hand as we dash over to the elevator.

John gives me a doleful look as we pass by, his halfhearted smile making me a little sad.

When we reach the lobby Sherlock searches the bushes under the victim's window, the rigging hidden in the foliage. I watch him examine it, his face tightening, his eyes fixed on the object.

"The shoe Sherlock, it's not his size. That's why he didn't leave an imprint. He's a 12 the shoes a 13." Sherlock lifts his cool stare to me, smacking his head with his open palm.

"Of course, he's getting bolder. The last shoe should have led us to a mountain or hiking trail but it led us to a hiker. Oh that's clever, changing things up in the middle of the game. Come Abbatissa, we have a killer to catch." Taking my hand again, we go back to the hotel room.

John returns with Lestrade, his group taping off the room. "The tea was ordered at noon but it wasn't brought up. They never delivered it; they have no record of sending room service to this room."

Sherlock walks out into the hallway, pacing back and forth. I watch from the door, John standing beside him. "Why don't John and I try to find the next victim? The shoe is the clue Sherlock."

"No, not entirely. There's something different, something not right about this. I need the photos from the other crime scenes, Lestrade your office now." Sherlock is off without another word, leaving me with Dr. Watson.

John smiles at me, waiting for me to enter the elevator first. "I'd apologize for Sherlock's behavior and him taking over your case but that's just Sherlock."

"That's fine Dr. Watson; I'd rather have him with me than against me." I smile back at him, his eyes darting to the floor.

"John, please call me John." He gives me a brief smile back.

"Call me Abbs; it makes me feel more at home. I feel all official when people call me Abbatissa. So, you and Scooby, have you been solving cases together very long." John chuckles out loud, his lips curling into a wider smile.

"We've been flat mates for a while now. Why do you ask?" As the elevator stops and the doors slide open I answer him.

"Because it's obvious." I walk out ahead of him, giggling to myself.


	3. The Brutal Truth

Beautiful Minds

Chapter 3 – "The Brutal Truth"

John and I go back to his flat at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock's inner lair was somewhat odd but every bit the quaint little place I thought John would live. His landlady Mrs. Hudson was out for the evening, the way John talked about her I could tell he had a motherly affection for her.

Taking the shoe out of the plastic bag I go about studying it, John giving me that inquisitive look he gives Sherlock. "It boggles me … really. I don't know how you do it or Sherlock for that matter. He can take one glance and he knows all he needs to know."

"I had a very sheltered upbringing. I'm my parent's only child. My mother is British and my father American. My mother left no corner over looked when it came to my education and upbringing. My father is a journalist, so my love for collecting information came for him. I have an acute knack for picking up on subtle cues. For instances, you pound your fist on your leg when Sherlock says brash things to you or is being less than mannerly. I take that as you way of dealing with his bitter tongue which we both know that is the way his mind works." John looks back at me with his mouth gaped open.

"That is amazing. I have to say Sherlock does make me want to punch him … regularly." I see the small smile lift the corner of his mouth and know that only someone you care for deeply could cause that level of irritation and make you forget it in the same breath.

Going back to the shoe I being to take notes, John aiding me by doing an internet search. John looks up at me, a puzzled look on his face. "May I ask, why the shoes?"

"Because of the killers deformity to his left leg he's had to wear special orthopedic shoes all his life. That's why we only find the right foot imprint. He wants to be the well sculpted, athletic type that he murders. Jealousy has driven him to madness and murder. Anything on the Wingtip we have here, I know it's a Prada men's leather black Wingtip size 13 but why Prada, he's never been so obscure before. And the toxin he's using has changed, as if he wants a new challenge. He used chloroform in the states but now he's lacing their drinks. From the smell of the water bottle at the first crime scene that's exactly what he's doing." I pick up the shoe again, noticing it had been polished but why, it was a new shoe.

I exam the shoe for hours, writing down my thoughts and notes in my handy notepad. Just like my father, my notepad is my way to organize my thoughts and keep track of them. I wasn't sure how Sherlock managed the madness that surged through his mind.

The evening begins to linger on and I hadn't eaten or slept in hours. The jet lag from taking the red eye was taking its toll on me. Placing the shoe back in the bag I tell John I'm going back to my hotel room for the evening. He walks me to the curb, waiting with me while I hail a cab. "When Sherlock gets back, if he has any new information I call you. You're in room 212?"

I take out my cell phone, giving him my number and taking his. "You can call my room or call my phone. I don't think I'll get much sleep tonight so don't worry about calling late."

"You get some rest Abbs; I can see you need it." I give John a quick peck on the cheek before climbing in the cab.

Once back at the hotel I order room service and go to soak in a nice hot tub. I let my long chestnut brown hair down, sliding my tired body in. The water was warm and soothing. Leaning my head back I let the events of the day wash off of me.

A knocking on the door startles me from my sleep, the bath water now cold. Placing my robe on I go to the door, a small sweet girl standing outside with a tray.

I gobble down my salad and grilled chicken, my stomach growling as I'm eating. With a full belly I climb on the bed, the black Prada shoe sitting on the night stand.

Thoughts of Sherlock and John flood my mind as I drift off to sleep. I wake from my slumber, jerking upright in my bed. I look over to the alarm clock, the red glowing numbers reading 3:28 A.M.

I jump from the bed, taking my notepad out of my jacket. Going over my notes I get the shoe out of the plastic bag.

Then it hits me like a brick. I retrieve my laptop, searching the internet for local male hair stylish with the first name that begins with a P.

I turn the shoe over and see the bottom is coated in wax and I'm more than sure I'm on the right path. My eyes search every inch of the shoe's surface, my brain clicking through every possible scenario. Forgetting the early hour I take out my cell phone and excitedly call John Watson.

"Uh … Hello." John answers the phone, sleep muddling his words

"The shoe has wax on the bottom of it that is a used in hair removal and the killer polished the shoe as if to groom it. He chose Prada because it's renown with presenting beauty and style. We have to find a hair stylist John, that's our next victim." My words fly out of my mouth as fast as Sherlock's when he's proving a theory.

John breathes heavy in the phone, trying to collect his thoughts. "Abbatissa, have you been to sleep at all?"

"Wake Sherlock and come over her immediately. I have a lead." Clicking end I go back to my laptop. I search until there are three possible names on the screen but only one jumps out to me. Pratt Priestly and his salon is only two blocks away.

About an hour goes by when I hear a rapid knocking on my hotel door. Pulling on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt I check the door and let my guests in.

As soon as I open the door Sherlock comes strolling it rambling on about his theory of the next victim. I smile at him, sucking my lips in to hold back my laughter. "What?!"

Sherlock stops, his eyes fixed on me. "Thank you Captain Obvious but I've already figured that part out." John and I walk to the small sofa as Sherlock tucks his hands in his pockets.

"Did you know those men have all been murdered because of you?" His cool blue eyes catch my green ones, my body going completely numb. Sherlock's words swirl in my mind, the possibility I was what spurred all the murders making me cold all over.

John places his hand on my shoulder as I let out a deep breath. Sherlock paces before me, his words flying at me like sharp daggers. "You overlooked him. He could have been on a bus or the tube or maybe even in a crowd but he noticed you and you ignored him. Since that day he's studied you, your likes … your dislikes. Tell me Abbatissa, do you prefer athletic men with dark hair and brown eyes or is all of this just a coincidence? Every man that he's killed have all been the same, the clues left just for you. Your perceptive mind picked up on all the material clues but you overlooked the one right in front of you. Your mother is British so he came here to bring you back to your mother's homeland. You may have mentioned wanting to visit here so he's granting your wish. The only mistake he's made so far is the first victim he killed in England, the Bishop boy. He's gay … all the others have been heterosexual men. Now we keep a keen eye on you, you are our biggest lead Ms. Christie."

I sit dumbfounded, my mouth unable to move. Sherlock glances at me, John's face showing me comfort and concern. The cold numbness covers me and I feel for the first time in a year like I have no clue what I'm doing.

"You're right Sherlock; all the clues lead back to me. I had a fiancée that died in a car accident. He was tall, athletic with brown eyes and dark curly hair. He died a month before all of this … oh God. He killed my Carlton didn't he?"

Running to the bathroom, John follows me. "Are you alright Abbs?" He wraps an arm around my shoulder, as I bend over to vomit.

Sherlock comes to the door, his blue eyes now softer as he takes my hand. We walk over to my bed, Sherlock sitting on the edge with me. "I fear he did Abbatisssa. He wants you and killing at first was his way to be with you. Now he does it to keep you looking for him."

Leaving me shivering on the bed, Sherlock goes to the phone on my desk to call Lestrade.

John wraps my robe around my shoulders, gazing up at Sherlock. Glancing over at John I see more than wonder in his eyes, he looked at Sherlock with admiration and respect but there was something more there … something more that I was sure is love.

Sherlock walks up to me, a crooked smile on his face. "I think we may be one step ahead of him this time. The salon doesn't open for a few hours; Lestrade is sending a car to Mr. Priestley's home. I think we need to go to the salon, that's where he's planning to carry out the murder."


	4. Out Foxing the Fox

Beautiful Minds

Chapter 4 – "Out Foxing the Fox"

The salon was still dark all but one light filtering from a door in the back. Sherlock calls Lestrade again, making sure he's secured Mr. Priestley. Lestrade tells him he's on his way to the salon, the stylists wife said he went to work early.

I begin to bang on the glass doors, Sherlock looking for another entrance. John picks up a trash bin by the door and throws it shattering the glass. Sherlock looks at him astonished and slightly amused. "I didn't know you had it in you John."

"There's a lot you still don't know about me Sherlock." John scoots some of the glass out of the way as he and Sherlock rush inside. We get to the door in the back that is labeled, Office Private.

Sherlock pushes the door open; Mr. Priestley crumbled in his chair. John immediately examines him, Sherlock picking up the half empty glass of brandy. I look at John and pray we're not too late. "Is he dead?"

"He's alive but just barely." John pulls out his cell phone to call for help when Lestrade shows up.

"Help is on the way." He looks at John then Sherlock. "Which one of you did the breaking and entering?" John points to Sherlock and Sherlock to John. Lestrade shakes his dead, walking out of the office.

Sherlock gazes over to me, putting his index finger to his lips. "Shh … he's still here."

He and John bolt out of the room, heading for the back of the salon. I run after them, finding nothing but bottles of shampoos and boxes of supplies scattered on the supply room floor.

Sherlock gets out a small magnifying glass, looking at the two imprints left from the slipped shampoo. "Now I've got him. Every orthopedic shoe is specially made for that particular patient. Once I find the doctor that prescribed this then we'll have the name of our killer."

The ambulance pulls away with a very much alive Mr. Pratt Priestley and I feel a wave of gladness wash over me. We managed to stop him this time. His rate of murder had picked up since he crossed the pond and it made me wonder if he was running out of time.

I share my theory with Sherlock and he finds it most interesting. Hailing a cab we go back to their flat, Sherlock immediately grilling me as I sit on the couch. "You have to remember him. He's made a point to stay close to you since your fiancée's death. You might have even seen him at the wake or funeral. Think Abbatissa … think."

"I'm trying Sherlock but how am I supposed to pick him out of a thousand faces I've seen in the past year." I glare back at the infuriating man, his beautiful blue eyes cutting back at me.

"Your mind isn't like the other mouth breathers I come in contact with. You have it in you Abbatissa, just open up that big beautiful mind of yours." He places both hands on my face, his cheek bones making his eyes look all the more alluring.

I try to think but nothing, my frustration causes tears to spring in my eyes.

"Sherlock, enough. She's had a very trying day already and as you can tell she's not over the shock that this madman killed her fiancée. Let me make us some breakfast and we'll pick up from here. Abbs, do you drink tea?" John walks into the kitchen, his kind eyes trying to mask his anger.

Sherlock paces the room, his eyes closed tight. Walking over to his violin he begins to play the most beautiful composure from Bach. I join John in the kitchen, his smile beaming as he watches Sherlock with his violin.

"Take this little bit of advice John. Don't ever walk away or leave with what hanging over your head. What if will haunt you for the rest of your days if you don't answer it. Trust me I know." Taking a sip of my tea John sits down beside me.

"I'm not sure what you mean Abbs." He goes to the refrigerator to take out some jam.

"I think you do John. I see the way you look at him when you think he's not looking. When you have feelings for a person you can't justify them … they exist and that's it. Loving someone is never wrong … not matter what others may think." I place some bread in the toaster, John gazing into the living room at the tall, beautiful man looking so lost in his music.

"Why does everyone assume Sherlock and I are together? We're not." His voice carries a harsh tone but I think that's more out of agitation because I've told him something he already knows, something he wants so desperately to hide.

"Just remember what I've said John. What if is the worst feeling in the world." Taking my toast and jam I walk to the stairs, sitting on the top step.

The music stops and I look over my shoulder to see Sherlock standing there. "Abbatissa, I'm sure you've seen him. Perhaps many times over. We need to search your memory banks and get that memory out. Allow me to try something." He reaches his hand to me and I take it.

I sit in John's arm chair, Sherlock perched before me. "I don't even know where to being. I don't think I can do this Sherlock."

He takes my arm, pushing up my shirt sleeve. "You just need a boost." He slaps a nicotine patch on my arm as John yells at him to stop.

With the nicotine rushing through my system I feel a jolt of electricity charge my brain as if turning on a super computer. Going over to the sofa I lay down, rubbing the patch on my arm.

John takes my pulse, looking very cross at his companion. "You really must stop taking chances with other peoples' lives Sherlock. This isn't funny."

Sherlock smiles at me, reassuring himself I'm not dying. He grabs his coat and he's down the stair in a flash.

I tell John to follow him as the drug charges my body and electrifies my brain. While waiting for their return I go over to the sheet music on the stand. I so missed playing the piano but I hadn't played it since Carlton died.

An old memory of sitting in Carlton's apartment comes back to me, my mind showing me the image as vivid as if I was living it again. I'm sitting at the piano with my love, the two of us playing heart and soul. That was the last time my fingers had touched the white ivory.

I begin to hum the tune, my eyes misting over with memories when it hits me. The young boy in the piano shop I use to visit, he had a strange limp in his left leg and he would play the piano for me and I would smile and listen to him. Could it be him?

When I turn to retrieve my phone from my jacket Sherlock bursts in the room. "You've remembered something haven't you?"

"I have? Where's John?" I sit down on the sofa, telling Sherlock the revelation that has come to me.

"Excellent. John is at the hospital searching for the orthopedic shoe. He says he might know someone that can help us. Now, the music store in New York, let's give them a ring and see who are mystery man is." I open John's laptop to see he's working on his next blog. I try not to read it but the first few lines are all about me.

_The brown haired beauty was more than she appeared. An NYPD Profiler and a match to Sherlock's wits. _

I click off the page, looking up the phone number of the music shop. Sherlock sits strangely on top of his leather arm chair instead of in it. Once I've made the call and gain the information Sherlock turns to me, his lips resting on his two index fingers.

"The shop owner remembers him. His name is Brian Harris, he quit work over a year ago and they haven't heard from him since." Sherlock jumps out of the chair, pumping his fists in the air.

"Brilliant." He grabs my face, kissing my forehead. "We need to get to the hospital to see what John has come up with and I need to figure out the toxin he's using. I have an idea but I want to be sure."

Sherlock is more than pleased, we're on the verge of putting a year old nightmare to rest and I could kiss him for it. We get in the cab and I smile at him. He looks rather pleased, his smile still beaming across his face. Leaning over I kiss him softly, his face going tight. His lips felt better than I thought they would and I find that I rather enjoyed that kiss.

"Sorry, I just had to." Without moving one facial muscle he stares at me.

"And why did you … have to?" I giggle at him, his eyes still glaring back incredulous.

"You have helped me begin to end a long on going nightmare I was afraid I'd never wake up from Sherlock. To find out this man killed my Carlton too, it just makes finding him all the more rewarding." I try not to look back at him, hoping he wasn't upset with me.

"I understand but don't do it again Ms. Christie." From the tone of his voice and the stern use of my last name I knew not to cross that line again.


	5. Clever Boy

Beautiful Minds

Chapter 5 – "Clever Boy"

I try to break the ice with Sherlock; it seems my little show of affection had chilled him over. "Should we call Lestrade and have him check up on Brian Harris or do it ourselves."

"I've already texted him. I'm curious; do you remember what he looks like?" Shrelock's smile returns, his eyes glowing with anticipation.

"He's only 5 foot 6 or so, and he had a small scar on his left cheek. If I'm remembering correctly, he has dark blonde hair and blue eyes. I could tell from the way he sat at the piano he has scoliosis, his back arched toward the keys. He seemed to lean to his right mostly, his body seems to be withered on the left side. If he has a congenial spine disorder or deformity then he may be losing his ability to walk Sherlock, perhaps that's why he's increasing his murder rate." This new revelation sparks in my mind and looking at Sherlock I see his mind is fast at work on a new deduction.

"It would appear from the drag marks in the left shoe imprint he is indeed losing the function of his left leg. I think you're on to something Abbatissa. His game of cat and mouse is coming to a close and he knows it. I'm afraid he's planning on taking you down with him. That's the only possibility end he can see." Sherlock glances at me briefly before pulling out his phone. He sends out a quick text before placing it back in his pocket.

The cab stops in front of St. Bart's hospital, Sherlock giving me a quick smile before exiting the cab. We go to a dimly light lab, John talking on his cell when we enter. "Thank you Morton, you've been most helpful." He turns to Sherlock who is already perched on a stool, looking into a microscope.

"The owner of the shoe is Brian Harris, am I correct?" John gawks at me somewhat taken aback.

"I will never stop being impressed with you Sherlock, yes that's correct." I smile at him, keeping Sherlock's secret for now.

"My friend from the army is now an orthopedic doctor in London . He tracked down the shoe for me. It belongs to Brian Harris of New York . How did you … never mind." John walks over to the lab table, leaning his palms against it.

"Abbatissa, are you familiar with chemical compounds?" Sherlock lifts his eyes from the microscope, moving away from the table. I place my eyes over the eyepiece. The organisms before me moved slowly, the wiggling green creatures reminding me of a compound not usually found in one's drink.

"It's antifreeze … why?" I look up a Sherlock as he stares at John.

"Antifreeze if ingested can shut down your kidneys and make you very ill, that's clever. He's lacing the antifreeze with a sedative isn't he?" Sherlock nods back at John, the two men carrying on about the killer wanting to cripple his victims in case he can't kill them.

"Our very cunning killer has changed his method of subduing to fit it with his current state of physical health. It's no longer enough to simply kill the men; he wants to cause them physical pain as well. Did you notice the vomit around the first victim's mouth? The killer cleaned it up but he left just that trace. Oh … well played Mr. Harris." Sherlock places his hands on his hips as he stands thinking. John and I go silent letting him have his moment.

I watch as he slowly opens his sparkling blue eyes, his lips pressed together making a perfect bow. John gives me a half smile as he picks up his jacket, handing Sherlock his. "Come on Abbs … he's on to something."

We take the elevator to the first floor, Sherlock charming his way into the security room. "I know he's here … watching you." His face lifts to me and I feel a shiver roll down my spine.

"You really think his failed attempt at the salon will cause him to make his big move." I look briefly at the monitors before me, John's finger points to a man hiding behind a column at the first floor elevator.

"John … shall we?" Sherlock and John run in different directions, leaving me alone in the hall. I suddenly feel like a worm at the end of a fishing hook.

Walking back into the security guard's office the lights go out, the guards rushing out to the hall. The room is pitch black and I know I'm being stalked like a gazelle on the African plains. Pulling my cell phone from my coat pocket I feel my hand trembling as I try to dial John's phone.

Before John can answer the door crashes open, the phone sailing out of my hand and across the room. I watch as the illumination from my phone shines from the floor and up towards the door.

My back goes straight, my heart pounding as I realize I'm in the room with the killer. " Hello Dr. Watson. Oh don't worry I'm not going to kill her yet. Tell Mr. Holmes he has one more riddle to solve … be seeing you." The light of my phone goes out as I feel a pair of lips at my ear. "If I can't have you … no one can."

I reach out to catch him and get a smack from a hard piece of metal instead. The clanking of what sounds like a brace echoes off the tile floor and I'm suddenly alone. Sinking to the floor I pull my knees up to my chest and try to hold my shaking body. Hot tears burn at my eyes as the stinging pain from the sobs trying to escape rip at the back of my throat.

The light flickers back on as Sherlock and John throw open the door. John pulls me to my feet, holding me tight in his arms. Sherlock strokes my hair as I finally let go of my tears.

"Let's get you back to your hotel. I'll stay with her Sherlock, you can go see Lestrade." John kisses my temple, telling me I'll be alright.

"What did he say to you Abbatissa?" Sherlock leans towards my face, his eyes kind and remorseful.

"That if he couldn't have me no one would … that's all." I bury my face in John's shoulder, Sherlock patting me on my back. "I'll call you as soon as I have something … don't leave her side. Abbatissa, I'd suggest you start carrying your gun."

We go back to my hotel room, John and I going to the in house restaurant for some lunch. I start to feel better as we talk, John sharing his war stories. John's face gets softer as he talks about Sherlock, how living with him has changed his life. Seeing Sherlock through John's eyes was refreshing and it casts a light on the sometimes manic man that I wouldn't have seen before.

We share a pleasant meal, laughing and smiling. I tell John of my tiny mistake with Sherlock in the cab on the way to St. Bart's. He stops eating, staring back at me. "You did what? You … kissed him?"

"I was in a celebratory mood and it just happened. He wasn't amused to say the least but if I may add … he does have the softest lips I've ever kissed." John drops his knife and fork, his cheeks becoming flushed. I look down at my plate, picking at my salad.

"Well then, if you're done we can go back to your room now." John scoots his chair back, helping me with mine.

The ride up was a short one and from the awkward look on John's face I was glad of it. We enter my room, John picking up the book on my night stand. "Murder on the Orient Express … wait are you related to the Agatha Christie?"

"No but I do enjoy her work. Go ahead; I finished it on the plane." John settles in the armchair by the window as I lay down for a nap. Taking my police issued handgun, I tuck it under my pillow. Gazing over at him I see his cheeks are still flushed, his true feeling for Sherlock betraying him.

My dreams are a restless mixture of Sherlock, John and the killer Brian. I can hear Sherlock softly whispering my name, his accent curling around each syllable. John's arms are holding me, his warm embrace inviting and comforting. Then Brian's lips are at my ear again … taunting me. I try to shake the dream, trying to cling to the parts where I'm with John and Sherlock.

I feel an icy chill tingling its way up my arm and over my shoulder as I look up to the cold dead eyes of my Carlton's killer, John and Sherlock both dead at my feet. I smell the sticky sweet scent of his sedative cocktail and try to revive my new friends.

I scream why at him as he gives me an ice cold smirk. "Because … you loved them."

Jerking upright, I toss the blanket from me. For a cool fall day I was sweating like it was mid July. Throwing my feet over the bed I look up to find my book resting in the arm chair and John gone.

Lazily I make my way to the bathroom, washing the sleep from my eyes. I go to the door, looking out in the hallway for John. "John." I call out with no response. Then I see it, tied to the hotel door handle. I pull my handgun from under the pillow and take a deep breath.

Running over to the desk I call Scotland Yard. "Detective Inspector Lestrade please … hurry it's an emergency. Tell him it's Ms. Christie and I need Sherlock Holmes … NOW!"


	6. Reflection

Beautiful Minds

Chapter 6 – "Reflection"

Pushing the panic from my mind I assess the situation, examining the room. John hadn't ordered anything to drink, only drinking the water from the mini-fridge. I go to check the door for forced entry, studying the keycard mechanism.

The room was as it was when I went to sleep, the only thing out of place was my closet door. Opening it slowly I see my three pairs of shoes I'd packed with one shoe missing its partner.

The shoe tied to the door handle was my taupe suede Dr. Marten and knowing the shoe like I did it make me instantly feel ill. Brian had been in my room, had subdued John and taken him away.

Calming myself, I sit on the floor in front of the window. To collect my thoughts I sit in the Dhyana meditation position, my hands palm up on my knees. Trying to purge my subconscious mind, I dive deep looking for what my mind took in while I was sleeping.

The ice cold sensation from my dream covers me again, the feel of cool metal being dragged up my arm jolts me back. Brian was using a cane or crutch, his leg no longer of use without a brace. The words from my dream, the ones he whispered to me. "Because you loved them." They weren't a part of my dream; they were indeed Brian talking to me.

Taking a deep steady breath I open my mind up to all my senses, remembering the smell of fresh linen. As I'm about to dive even deeper into my subconscious I feel a hand on my shoulder. Looking up I see the dazzling blue of Sherlock's eyes but this time they flashed a light shade of green.

"Abbatissa." His voice is low, almost somber as he stands over me. Lestrade stands in the back of the room, the hallway a bushel of people.

"Shut the door Lestrade, I need to think." The corner of Sherlock's mouth lifts up in a slight smile as he waves for Lestrade to leave.

"The shoe Abbatissa, there's something special about." He holds my shoe in his hand, squatting down to look me in the eyes.

"It's my shoe. The fact that it's a Dr. Marten is one clue but the fact that the style name is John is the biggest. He's been in my room before; he targeted John because he thinks I fancy him. I mistakenly gave John a kiss on the cheek yesterday and today he's paying for it." I turn my gaze from his, going back to searching my mind.

"Where do you go to think Ms. Christie?" Sherlock seemed more interested in my meditation than looking for clues.

"A quiet room … my white room. Here I can think and process my mind. Now you need to let me think." His smile gleams through his eyes as he rises from the floor. I take his hand before he leaves, his fingers curling around mine. "Sherlock, I smelled fresh linen, I remember the smell of fabric softener in my sleep. Not sure what that means yet but I hope you do."

He leans down, kissing the top of my head and grins wildly. "The hotel laundry room. Brilliant Abbatissa … brilliant."

I jump to my feet, running down the hall after him. "You think he has John in the laundry room?"

We run down the stairs, Sherlock's feet moving at a blazing speed. "No, but that's where he's been hiding. You and John had lunch here; the stain from the salad dressing you spilled is on your shirt. John likes to have tea or white wine with his meals so that is when he drugged him. He's been right here with you all this time Abbatissa, right under your nose."

A white hot rage boils in me; Sherlock was blaming me for John's disappearance and I couldn't take it any longer. "This is not my damn fault. I didn't know that crazy bastard was in the hotel, I sure as hell didn't know he would take John. You can't lay this at my feet Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh there it is, that temper I knew you had. You've been hiding your true self Abbatissa. Let it out … let it all out and then perhaps you can let go of whatever has been holding you back. That wall of civility your mother raised you with has been blocking you from using your anger, your temper to forge that blazing white heat of bitterness into something constructive. Let it go Abbatissa." His face is so close to mine I can feel his breathes on my cheek.

Placing my hands on his chest I push him away, my words coming out in a high pitched rage. "You with your big words and calculating deductions. How could I forget you're the great and powerful Sherlock Holmes. Well tell me Mr. Holmes, if you knew he was here and you knew he was going to come after me, why did you let John come with me? Why Sherlock … why John?"

He simply reaches over taking my hand, giving me that paten Sherlock glare and we're off down the stairs to the laundry room. As we approach the door Sherlock stops, looking over his shoulder at me. "He's here but I need you to lure him out. Can you do that?"

I nod to him as he releases my hand. I walk around the workers as the fold sheets and fluff blankets. Sherlock walks towards the back, the sound of the washing machines drowning out everything else.

My nose takes in the smell from my dream as I approach the dryers, a white door to my left marked Employees Only.

Placing my hand on the brass door knob I feel a lump rise in the back of my throat. I automatically reach for my hip, forgetting I didn't bring my handgun. Biting at my bottom lip I curse at myself, hoping I could take down the killer by force.

The smell of fabric softener fills my nose as I open the door, a pile of towels lying on the floor as if made into a pallet for sleeping. Looking at the door from the inside, there had been some metal objected wedge into the door jamb to keep it closed. Any employee trying to gain access would think the door was locked.

The room was just your ordinary supply closet, bottles of softener lining the wall. Going through the towels on the floor I come across something interesting. A prescription bottle half empty. The name Brian Harris was on the label, the medication prescribed by a Dr. C. Lance. The bottle had around ten Valium left, the high power sedative exactly what he was using to lace the antifreeze with.

Looking harder at the floor I notice scratches in the tile, from either his brace or a cane. The scratches are deep, cut at a right angle. His affliction was getting worse and he had to practically lean on the cane in his right hand to walk now. I begin to wonder how he could have gotten a drugged John out of my hotel room and down to the laundry room.

Opening the door I feel my heart jump out of my chest as Sherlock is standing on the other side. "He used that laundry cart there to get John out of the hotel. Wearing this hotel uniform he would have gone unnoticed."

I show Sherlock the prescription bottle and the gashes in the floor. His eyes flash a brilliant bluish green, his fingers wiggling by his sides. "If he moved John out of the hotel then he doesn't mean to kill him. He means to use him to get to me. I think he's confused Sherlock. He took John because he couldn't get to you. He thinks I love you both, in his warped mind I'm having some love affair with the both of you. Oh God … he saw me kiss you. He saw me kiss you and that's when he changed his mind to take John. You have all the physical traits I find attractive, all but your eyes. You're too clever for him and he knows taking you would have been a huge mistake. John is your friend so he took John because I showed him some affection and he wants to hurt you."

Before I can take another breath Sherlock dashes out of the room, making his way to the elevator. "Do you see it Abby, do you see it. He has some sort of listening device on your coat. He's had you tapped for a while now. That's how he knows what you're doing, how he's stayed one step ahead of you."

As we get on the elevator he gives me a curious look. "You called me Abby … thank you."

"Well don't get any ideal of giving me some ridiculous nickname. I don't do nicknames Abbatissa." He looks straight ahead, pulling his coat collar up.

"Whatever you say Scooby." Sherlock holds back a chuckle as the elevator rises to the second floor.


	7. It Takes Two

Beautiful Minds

Chapter 7 – "It Takes Two"

I take my coat from the back of the sofa, Sherlock's hands smoothing over it. I watch as his fingers slide over the collar and down the lapel. "Found it." He tosses it to the floor, crushing it under his boot. "It would seem he placed the listening device on your coat when it wasn't on your person. Now that we can talk freely, we need to go to the loading dock in the back of the hotel. I think that's where he may have taken John."

My mind shuts him out, going over the supply room Brian was holding up in. The towels, the prescription bottle and the scratches on the floor, "Dr. C. Lance, we need to talk to him. You can go to the loading dock but I'm going to call his doctor."

Sherlock narrows his eyes, pursing his perfect lips together. "Very well then but do not leave this room Abby."

A schoolgirl euphoria covers me when he calls me Abby, almost as if I was a teenager again. I shake it off, going back to the task at hand. "I won't. I'll keep my cell on if you need me."

He's gone and I feel vulnerable, as if a thousand eyes are on me. My fingers fly across my laptop keyboard, hoping to find Dr. Lance's number quickly. The longer John was with Brian the more likely he may become his next victim.

Finding the number I dial it quickly, the time difference meaning the office was still open. "Dr. Lance's office, how may I help you?"

"This is Abbatissa Christie from the NYPD; I need to speak to Dr. Lance about a patient of his." I clear my throat, trying to sound very official.

"I'm sorry Ms. Christie; Dr. Lance is out of the office this week. He's on vacation." The receptionist gives me the bitter news, her voice almost too light to hear.

"Can you tell me where Dr. Lance is vacationing?" My mind was firing off theories as if clicking on a million lights.

"Dr. Lance will be back in the office on Tuesday. He's in London, England at the moment." The tone of her voice tells me she didn't want to divulge this information, as if she's been told not to say.

"Thank you, you've been most helpful." I place my suede jacket on, my coat making me feel violated.

I rush to the elevator, calling Sherlock on my way to him. His voice instantly goes harsh as he answers his phone. "I told you to stay put."

"I have my gun, don't worry. I just got off the phone with Dr. Lance's office. He's in London … he's here Sherlock. Why would a Brian's doctor be on vacation here? Doesn't all of this seem a little too convenient?" The silence on the other end of the phone starts to worry me when I hear Sherlock let out a held breath.

"Of course, he has an accomplice. Is this his medical physician or his psychiatrist? I'm thinking the later and I'm thinking Dr. Lance has been waiting for a mind as derange as Brian's to come along. Do you know this doctor?" Sherlock's words ramble back at me, my mind trying to compute them all.

"Not that I know of … wait. Yes, I do. Carlton had to see a psychiatrist for his PTSD … he was in the military. The doctor seemed to be very interested in Carlton and very cold with me. I can't believe I forgot him." I feel the blood rush to my face, my anger rising.

When I get off the elevator Sherlock is waiting for me, placing a hand on my shoulder, his blue eyes capture mine. "It would seem our good doctor blames you for Carlton's death. He wanted you dead … now he wants you punished. If I'm correct and I often am, Dr. Lance was in love with your fiancée and Brian being fixated with you only helps him gain his ultimate goal. I'll call Lestrade; we need to find this psychiatrist."

Waiting for Sherlock to hail us a cab I see the scratch marks from the laundry supply closet, the gashes leading towards the parking lot. "Sherlock!"

He turns me to, the collar popped up over his face making his cheekbones stand out. "What have we here?"

We follow the gashes all the way to the parking garage as they come to a stop at the parking area. We look at each other, both of us knowing Dr. Lance helped Brian get John out of the hotel.

Sherlock squats down, taking out is magnifying glass. He measures the tire marks left behind, the small puddle of what looks like coolant and the rubber skid marks that look as if someone had dragged something up to the car. "They dragged the laundry cart into the parking garage, loading John in the car. The coolant spilled was never in a car was it … it was poured out into another container. Oh God Sherlock … what if we're already too late?"

His arms go around me, both of us breathing a tad harder. "No, John is a fighter. He'll know what to do. I won't lose him this way … that's not going to happen Abby."

The confident, bold man walking beside me suddenly looks like a hurt little boy. The thought of losing John was playing over in his mind and I could tell it shook him to his core.

Lestrade calls back, telling Sherlock the doctor is staying at a bed and breakfast just outside the city. Sherlock tells Lestrade about the doctor's involvement, as I give the cabbie the address.

The B&B was busy, people coming and going. Sherlock goes to the front desk, choosing the direct option. I look around the lobby, the carpet leading to the back hallway showing small indentions, in the same shape as the gashes in the parking garage.

"Christopher Lance is staying on the third floor and with a guest. According to the clerk he's here with his nephew." I point to the indentions in the carpet, Sherlock smiling back at me. "Good work Abbatissa."

We walk down the hallway, the marks leading us to a storage room. Sherlock tries the door handle only to find it locked. I reach inside my jacket pocket, pulling out my black leather tool kit. "You keep an eye on the hallway … I've got this."

Kneeling down to the door lock I begin to pick it, the tumblers clicking a few times before I get the hook pick to click in place. The door lock releases, my hand pushing down on the handle.

Sherlock walks in first, pushing me behind him. I feel along the wall for the light switch, Sherlock taking out his small flashlight. The sound of labored breathing comes to my ear as I whisper at my sleuthing companion. "Sherlock … can you hear that?"

He waves for me to come to him, the flashlight shining on a sheet moving about. I look up at Sherlock, his eyes widening. "Easy."

Pulling the sheet back slowly we're both elated to see John. He's tied to a chair and looking a little weary. Sherlock works on the binding to his hands as I untie his feet. John tries to speak, the cloth tied around his mouth muffling his words.

Sherlock stands up, raising his hands in the air. I look at his face, his eyes going to my hip. I look up at John, whispering for him to hit the floor. Sherlock closes his eyes and I know it's now or never.

John falls to the floor as Sherlock steps sideways. I swirl around on my knees, bringing my gun up to shoot. Brian stands looking at me, a hurt look on his face. "They have to die Abbs … they're keeping you from me." With those words he begins to shoot, my finger squeezing the trigger of my gun three times quickly.

John picks himself up out of the floor; Sherlock bending over Brian's bleeding body on the floor. "He's dead Abby."

Lestrade comes rushing down the hallway, his eyes taking in the scene. "What part of wait for me didn't you understand Sherlock?"

Sherlock ignores the understandably upset man, his hands holding John's face. "I'm alright Sherlock, really."

Looking at Sherlock with John I can see exactly how much John means to him and my heart feels his pain.

"We have to find Dr. Lance and now. He may have heard the shots. I can't let him get away … I need answers." The two of them turn to me, a big smile breaking out on both their faces.

"Then you shall have them. Abbatissa, if you want answers you might want to shoot lower next time. I can't get answers from a corpse." I grin back at them, placing my gun back it the holster.


	8. Finding the Truth

Beautiful Minds

Chapter 8 – "Finding the Truth"

Sherlock and I make our way up the stairs, John and Lestrade behind us. I check my clips, making sure I have a backup. Lestrade and I cover the door, Sherlock and John on the other side of the hall.

As I raise my gun Sherlock stops me, pointing to the smoke rolling out from under the door. He leans down taking a whiff. Placing his hand on the door he turns to us and yells for us to run.

When we get to the lobby the clerk is instructing everyone out of the B&B, fire engulfing the third floor.

"That crazy bastard set the hotel on fire to keep us from finding him." I look at Sherlock, his eyes searching the crowd.

I watch the flames devour the B&B as we pull out of the parking lot. Sherlock's mind was humming, his eyes closed shut. "Why burn down the B&B, why not just jump out of a window or slide out an unwatched door. Oh … he wanted to get rid of any evidence that links him to Brian. But to truly get rid of any link he'll have to destroy his records. We need to get to St. Bart's … I think the good doctor will be waiting for us."

Once the cab pulls up to the hospital Sherlock and John dash out, leaving me to pay the bill. I finally catch up to them in Molly's lab, the mousy girl giving Sherlock her doe eyed look. Sherlock was pacing the floor, his finger stroking his bottom lip.

"John takes Abby and go to records file room." John doesn't question him as we go down to the first floor.

Once we get to the records room we find the door ajar, the sound of metal being forced open echoing into the hall.

Dr. Lance was trying to pry open a locked filing cabinet, cursing at the top of his lungs. Holding my gun out I yell for him to freeze. The doctor turns to face me, a blood chilling grin on his face. "I see you've found me Ms. Christie. I made the mistake of having Brian's files sent to the hospital here. Brian's mental state deteriorated rapidly and I had to treat him once he got here. I couldn't let another doctor care for him or my plan would be discovered. Your friend Sherlock has figured me out … unmasked the puppeteer if you would."

"Why? That's all I really want to know." I keep my gun on the madman before me as John calls Lestrade.

"I loved him you know. Carlton was a good man, too good for you. You didn't understand him; you couldn't see his true pain. I saw into his heart, into his mind. I had Brian cut the brake line to your car … it was supposed to be you. Brian wanted you to himself and after Carlton died he became even more obsessed. You killed Carlton, if you had only been in that car … you stupid bitch." A darkness covers his face as he lunges at me.

I wrestle with him for control of the gun when John picks up the crowbar from the floor. Before John knocks Dr. Lance out the gun goes off, a fire like pain ripping across my shoulder.

Sherlock bursts into the records room, John tending to my gunshot wound. "Abbatissa!"

"She alright Sherlock, it's a flesh wound." Sherlock squats down to me, his bluish-green eyes glowing.

"I knew you'd get yourself shot sooner or later." He kisses my cheek before walking over to the filing cabinet, pulling out Brian Harris's files.

With the open file in his hand, he flips the pages over rapidly. "What did you find Sherlock?" John helps me to my feet, my shoulder killing me.

"It's as I thought, Dr. Lance was giving Brian strong hallucinogenic. He turned Brian's bipolar disorder into full blow hysteria. Brian was a ticking time bomb that he used to carry out these murders. He needed the release and having Brian kill for him was just that for him. The doctor became the monster he was treating in the end." He closes the file, a look of boredom covering his face.

The next morning I go to see John and Sherlock at their flat. Sherlock is treating his kitchen table as a laboratory and John is reading a book. "I'm leaving for New York today and wanted to thank you for all the help." Sherlock looks up from the microscope as if not interested.

I walk over to him, giving him a kiss on the cheek. "Honestly Abby, I'm in the middle of an experiment."

"I love you too Sherlock. Okay, Dr. Watson … walk me to the curb." John takes my arm as we walk downstairs.

Once outside I turn to John, my hand holding his hands tightly. "John, don't talk just listen. You never know when something will happen and change your world forever. That day happened to me when my car crashed at the bottom of a hill taking Carlton away from me. Don't wait for that day to come. Remember what I said … what if will haunt you."

"Abbs, I'm not sure if you understand my relationship with Sherlock." I glare back at him, my eyes burning like flames.

"I didn't say anything about your relationship with Sherlock but obviously you think that's what I mean. Tell him John … tell him and let what will be just be." I kiss his cheek as the cab pulls up.

Sherlock walks down, his cheekbones, sparkling eyes and perfect lips looking back at me. "Goodbye Abbatissa, it's been an honor to watch your beautiful mind at work."

"I can say the same Mr. Holmes." I climb in the cab, a smile curling on my lips as John takes Sherlock's hand and pulls him towards the door marked 221B.


End file.
